For The Life of Me
by Rjalker
Summary: Amy has spent 36 years of her life alone, trapped in a hospital on an alien planet. And she's not going to give it up without a fight. After everything she's seen, and done, and learned, for the life of her, she can't regret it. The only problem is that the Doctor doesn't quite see it that way. He's there to rescue her, even if he has to kill her to do it. Larger story coming soon.


Amy stared at her younger self with her heart pounding. They were going to do it. They were really going to do it. The Doctor knew Rory wouldn't be able to resist trying to save her past self. They were going to use _her past self_ to manipulate her into _dying_.

And her younger self was staring right back at her, her eyes red with tears of frustration and anger and loneliness, and Amy's heart broke in her chest.

Because their plan was going to work. Because she'd looked back so often on her life with _regret_ and now the Doctor had shattered time to show her what she _could _have been, and it was going to cost her her life to get it. For the Doctor to have it. For Rory to have it. It wasn't about her. It wasn't about what she wanted. It was about them, and their guilt and anger.

Because she couldn't stand to look at Rory for more than a few seconds without her hands itching for her sword. Because the Doctor's voice in her ear made her want to shout and scream and shatter things with her bare hands.

Because Verin clung to her shoulder, and refused to leave her side for an instant, even when Bronwyn tried to get him to talk to her.

Because the years hadn't been kind to her. But they hadn't needed to. Because in the years of being alone, they'd finally learned what it meant to be _themselves_. Trapped alone, their decision was final. There was no one to argue every time detail with her. No Rory to tell her she needed protecting, no Bronwyn to insist Verin he hide behind her, no Doctor to act like she was still the child who'd first met him, who refused to knowledge that Verin had settled long ago as a mourning dove, and insisted on asking when he was going to get tired of being a bird so he could change into something _interesting_.

The facility had a vast library, and more books than she could count. Chayen—the Interface—had suggested several of them for her to read when she'd been unable to come to a decision, and she'd been confused, initially, when she realized they were books on relationships. Specifically, abusive relationships.

But she'd read them, just glad for the distraction.

It wasn't long before they started becoming more and more distressed as the things the books described started to become more and more familiar. After a while, they hadn't been able to deny the truth any longer.

And now the pattern she'd thought she'd broken away from had been stitched back together again. Because the Doctor and Rory were trying to control her again, and Bronwyn was staring up at Verin in disapproval, and everything she'd thought she'd escaped from was back to try and steal her away again.

Because this hadn't happened before. This was something new. They had no memories of speaking to an older version of themselves. They'd never stared through a looking glass at a woman cloaked in armour and a powerful aura, and stared in wonder at the daemon on her shoulder, his feathers so much more _vibrant_ than anything they'd ever imagined they could be. This entire situation was new.

And that meant their plan was going to succeed.

Because if she couldn't remember this happening, but it was happening _right now_, then that meant _she_ wasn't going to exist. They were going to erase her, and her younger self would leave with them, unaware of the cage she was stepping back into. And she would go back to the TARDIS as though nothing had happened, and everything would go back to normal, and Rory would continue treating her like a prize, and the Doctor would constantly belittle Verin for how he had settled, and everything she'd done and seen and learned over the years, her _entire life_ would be gone.

She wanted to hate the woman looking back at her. Because she was the one they wanted. Because they could still control her, because she was young, and in love, and as hard as she tried to resist it, some deep, irrational part of her was jealous that the two men could love her. Because as much as she took vindictive glee in Rory's distress and _horror_ every time he looked at her, she didn't _want_ people looking at her like she was a monster.

She wanted someone to look at her the way Rory has used to look at her. The way he was looking at her younger self right now.

As though heraring her thoughts, the woman past the looking glass wiped the tears angrily from her cheeks, and looked directly into her eyes before she spoke, deliberately, and slowly, "_Miin kiin rothe kiin_?"

The question was like a punch to the stomach, and it felt like the air has been torn from her lungs. Almost without knowing how, she understood the words. They were from the language she'd created when she was younger. Her heart in her throat, she couldn't stop the tears that blurred her vision. "_Laan_." She whispered, almost without hesitation, feeling Verin's heart fluttering rapidly against her neck through the warmth of his feathers, the words coming back to her as though she'd never forgotten them, "_Laan._ _Kiin miin_."

She could feel Rory's gaze burning into her back even though the armour she wore. She'd never shared her secret language with anyone. They'd already thought she was insane, and if they had caught her speaking a made-up language, it would have been confirmed without a doubt.

"What did you say?" Rory was behind her, peering over her shoulder, his voice tense. "What did you just say?"

Her heart pounding in her chest at his proximity—because she could feel the heat radiating off of him from where his hand rested in the air an inch away form her own, and Verin was struggling not to flash into the air away from him—her tongue tied itself into knots, and she couldn't think of an answer. She couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't know the truth.

Her younger self saved her from the panic that had almost overwhelmed her. "She's going to help us." She said, her eyes—so young, so _determined—_flickering over to meet his reassuringly, "I'm going to make sure of it."

The young eyes went back to her, all steel and fire. For a moment, there was hesitation as she clenched her teeth in frustration, searching for the words they'd both forgotten so long ago. "Styo...Styo _laan_." She said finally, biting her lip, her eyes never wavering even as she struggled to find the words she needed. "Laan. Kri agon fi—fi mao laan."

For a moment, rage tried to smother her thoughts with the betrayal that burned through her veins at the words. _Just say yes. You have to say yes_.

But then she caught the flicker in the green eyes staring determinedly back at her, and realized, with sudden clarity, that she knew when this younger version of herself was from.

Because she'd been offered the books just a few weeks into her incarceration. Once she realized what it meant that so many of the things they listed felt _familiar_, she'd started to cry. Because it _couldn't_ be true. She hadn't wanted to accept it. Rory loved her. He would _never_ do such terrible things.

But he had. He'd undermined her at every chance he'd gotten, and she _hadn't even noticed_.

This was the younger version of her that had finally noticed. That had finally realized all she'd given up when the married the man that had loved her since she was a child.

Her eyes were red because she'd cried for the innocence she'd lost, and for the strength the knowledge had forged in her soul.

Rory was still watching, though, his hand almost about to brush hers, her skin crawling at the proximity, so she had to contain her reaction. She couldn't let him see that anything was amiss. If they were going to do this, they had to do it the right way. One mistake, and they'd both lose.

Her younger self moved closer to the looking glass, and pressed one hand against it, her voice pleading. "_Help me_."

Her heart pounding in her chest, Amy heard the words that went unspoken. _Trust me_.

She placed her hand against her younger version's. A burst of electricity darted between them at the contact, softer than she would have expected, considering she was feeling time trying to tear itself apart.

It was a paradox. It should have been impossible. They shouldn't have been able to touch each other like this. But the Doctor was desperate to keep her, and he was forcing the TARDIS to sustain the damage they were creating. Time was bleeding, and he was just digging the blade in deeper.

Amy bowed her head, her free hand clenching itself into a fist. "I will." She whispered, the tears suddenly streaming down her face without warning as _hope_ swelled up in her chest and tried to choke her words, "I will help you escape."

Behind her, Rory sighed in relief, and turned away. He was happy. He was going to get his wife back, and he would be able to forget that any of this had ever happened. The Doctor was probably dancing around the TARDIS even as he forced her to rend time itself apart.

She lifted her eyes back to her younger self.

Young eyes locked into old, and understanding too strong for words passed between them in the that moment they went unobserved.

Her heart slowed its frantic pace, and the fear that had been clouding her thoughts slowly faded as she saw the determination reflected back at her from her younger self.

Everything was going to be alright.

They were going to make sure of it.


End file.
